


The Magnolia Archives

by TheCrowMaiden



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff, Jon is a grumpy florist and Martin still works at the non-spooky Institute, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner Are Best Friends, M/M, Meet-Cute, Self-Indulgent, Tim and Sasha are well meaning friends who meddle in Martin's love life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26091469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrowMaiden/pseuds/TheCrowMaiden
Summary: "Martin had never been given flowers before. Ever. Not even a boutonniere in high school. Not by a woman, not by a man, and certainly not from a man with piercing eyes and a voice that was pleasantly deep even when it was sharp with temper. Cheeks red as the flower he was being offered, Martin took it from Jonathan’s hand as carefully as if both were made of glass. "Martin runs into a grumpy florist one morning when his commute is interrupted by technical difficulties. When he's given a flower as repayment for a spilled cup of tea, he ends up finding himself unable to forget his run in with Jonathan Sims. (AKA, a JonMartin florist AU, where nothing is spooky and the biggest issue is Jon's lack of people skills. Just fluff! And yes I know the title is terrible but I had to do it)
Relationships: Alice "Daisy" Tonner & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 249
Kudos: 433





	1. Chapter 1

Martin had no idea where he was.

To be more accurate, he knew he was in London and he knew he was at least halfway through his usual commute. But a malfunction on the Tube had forced everyone on the carriage off a few stops too early, and that left Martin in an area he didn’t know—with no clue how he was supposed to get to work.

So as far as he was concerned, he had no idea where he was.

A café to his right promised fair-trade products and, more importantly, WiFi, so Martin stopped goggling at the street signs and ducked in. Plugging the address to the Magnus Institute into his phone as he stood in line, he breathed in the coffee-flavoured air and waited for the map to load. It wasn’t the biggest café, and more than one person jostled Martin’s arm as they pushed past him to get to the tiny pick up-counter. The barista thankfully didn’t even blink at him when he ordered tea rather than one of the many specialty drinks that covered the menu boards, and Martin found himself back out the door in no time.

It had been enough time for the app to figure out a route without Martin needing to cram himself into a corner to wait though, so he didn’t mind. The less time he spent in other peoples’ way, the better. Forearmed with the knowledge of it being a thirty minute walk to the Institute—not a huge problem—and a cup of Earl Grey to go, Martin quickly texted Sasha about his predicament. He had to admit, it was rather nice to be friends with his boss to the point where he only felt a _little_ nervous letting her know he was going to be late. The sun was shining and the tea was good, and Martin set out feeling just a little bit jauntier than he had when he’d first been ejected onto the unfamiliar street.

Shops lined the way, most of them still closed in the pale morning light. It was too early for foot traffic beyond the bustle of the café, so there was no one to bother Martin as he looked around. All the buildings had a certain quaintness to them that he admittedly loved; some of them even had the stereotypical little wood-and-chalk signs done up artfully, and he had to resist the urge to stop at every one. It was clearly one of those areas that focused on the younger and world-conscious crowd: all organics and upcycling and vegans. Not really a place where academic types would hang out, but Martin could see Tim and Sasha liking it there if he brought them. Not that any of them looked or acted like typical academics, even if they _did_ all work in an archive.

He was almost at the other end of the street when he heard the first sounds that might have been another person—a couple thumps and what might have been soft swearing, followed by the unmistakable jingle of a shop’s door. Martin stopped, looking around for whoever it was; they kind of sounded like they needed help. Even the vague sounds of distress were enough to make him fret. But there was no one in sight, so Martin resumed walking. He rounded the corner—

—and let out a yelp, juggling his tea, when he almost bumped right into the person he had heard.

They were shorter than he was, thin in a bony sort of way with long, grey-streaked black hair that was done up in a loose bun. Martin couldn’t see their face behind the sunflowers that filled the enormous bucket they were carrying, their arms straining and knees shaking. They were definitely swearing now that Martin was close enough to hear, but there was…something about their voice. It was the kind of voice that you wanted to listen to, that rendered the profanity less jarring than it ought to have been.

Martin was still frozen in place, partly from fascination and partly from his attempt to not bowl the stranger over, when the bucket—which probably weighed more than the person holding it—slipped free from their grip.

That was all it took for Martin to find himself able to move again, lunging forward to grab the black plastic rim with both hands and bending one of his thumbnails half-backwards for his efforts. He banged his knees, water slopped all over the ground and his shoes, and the sticky sap of a sunflower smeared against his nose. Martin sucked in a sharp breath of pain, hoping that he hadn’t taken the nail clean off, and looked down—right into the other person’s face.

Chunks of their bangs had pulled free of their barrettes, dropping into sharp eyes that were shielded by rectangular, steel-rimmed glasses. Surprise was mixed with a great deal of annoyance and suspicion in their expression, which might have been harder to discern if they weren’t basically nose to nose with each other. Martin awkwardly cleared his throat as he felt himself blushing under the scrutiny. They were attractive eyes.

“Sorry,” he said nonsensically, considering he had just helped, looking away as he carefully set the bucket onto the pavement. “I uh, I thought you could use a hand.”

No longer burdened by the flowers, the stranger straightened up and brushed their hair back from their face with a scowl. The name on the shop simply read ‘Sims’, and Martin wondered if that was who was in front of him. Despite the grey hairs, the odd scars littered across their cheeks and the stubble over their jaw, they didn’t actually look like they’d be much older than him. But it also didn’t look like the kind of place that would have too many staff members, and there was something about their button-down shirt, vest, and apron combo that didn’t exactly say ‘part-timer’.

The silence was starting to get awkward, not to mention he was definitely staring at that point, so Martin glanced down at his shoes as he tried to unstuck both his throat and the conversation.

But the florist beat him to it.

“Do you always make a point of helping strangers?”

As a question alone it wouldn’t have been too bad. It was fair enough to ask, especially when Martin had clearly come out the worse for it; his thumbnail was definitely turning an angry shade of purple. He also knew well enough that most folks didn’t jump to the aid of people they didn’t know. Or if they did, they had an ulterior motive. But the person’s voice was so completely and utterly _acerbic_ when they finally spoke, that Martin actually felt a flare of indignation swell in his chest.

“Yeah I do, when they need it!”

For once in his life, Martin was spared from self-doubt as his ire lasted him all the way through that high-pitched objection.

…What he wasn’t spared was the moment of absolute dread that filled his entire body a second later.

It wasn’t like the stranger in front of him was likely to be any sort of physical threat; they were honestly half his size; not that Martin was built for or inclined towards an altercation. The other person didn’t seem like that type either—they both lacked the posture of someone who could throw a punch. But something about the crispness of their voice reminded him of Mr. Bouchard, which made him think of what would happen if this person _complained_ to Mr. Bouchard, and Martin had to try very hard to keep his knees from knocking together.

Yet for all the worrying he got done in it, the moment was shockingly brief. The florist sighed after a short pause, and deflated the slightest bit.

“I...yes. Yes, that was unnecessary of me.” They cleared their throat, gaze dropping when they spoke. “You did prevent a great deal of loss.”

“Oh. M-my pleasure?” Martin rubbed the back of neck as he took a step back. His spark of confidence was long gone, and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. “Um, my name’s Martin. Martin Blackwood. Is this, is this your shop?”

He waved unnecessarily at the storefront they were right next to, set up smartly with flowers and plants in a way that was less whimsical and more, well, organized than most florists he’d walked by. None of the displays were too full, nor any of the blooms out of place. Price tags were printed large enough that Martin would bet he could read them without his glasses on. The paving in front was swept clear and clear of any errant pieces of chewing gum. It was impeccably, unbearably neat.

“I am Jonathan Sims, yes.”

The last name did match the one on the sign, and Martin nodded to himself at the confirmation of his guess. He almost reached out to offer a handshake before he thought the better of it; Jonathan’s hands were clenched in his apron pockets, and he didn’t look inclined to remove them any time soon. The silence was awkward as they stared at each other for the second time, both of them clearly embarrassed. For that reason alone the other man didn’t seem likely to speak up, which left it to Martin. If he wanted to keep talking, he had to be the one to make conversation.

“Oh, of course; it’s nice to meet you, Jonathan,” he said brightly. “Do you sell many flowers?”

…Conversation wasn’t exactly Martin’s strongpoint.

He barely suppressed the urge to run when his voice slipped into the range of too high, and settled for taking another—completely reasonable!—step back instead. His shoe crunched on something when he did, and he glanced down to see a to-go cup squashed under his heel. A puddle of spilled tea stained the pavement, rivulets running towards the street, and Martin belatedly realized it was his. He must have dropped it in his haste to catch the bucket of sunflowers, and he hadn’t even noticed.

Jonathan’s gaze followed Martin’s, and his lips thinned into a tight line.

“Was that yours?” He asked, voice somehow even more clipped than before. His hands came out of his apron pockets at last, only for his arms to fold together in front of him as _he_ took a step back. He seemed to be scanning the flowers, fingers tapping on his skinny bicep as he edged away.

“Yeah, sorry, I guess it happened when I, um.” Martin waved a hand at the bucket. “You know.”

“Hm. Well, I don’t have time to replace it for you, Mister Blackwood, so—”

“What? Oh no, that’s not necessary—”

“—here.”

And Martin’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click as he stared at the ruffly red flower that had been gracelessly thrust under his nose.

Martin had never been given flowers before. Ever. Not even a boutonniere in high school. Not by a woman, not by a man, and certainly not from a man with piercing eyes and a voice that was pleasantly deep even when it was sharp with temper. Cheeks red as the flower he was being offered, Martin took it from Jonathan’s hand as carefully as if both were made of glass. It took a couple tries to get his voice working again, and this time he couldn’t contain his wince when it tipped so high that the dreaded squeak showed up full force at last.

“Thanks! But just, just Martin is fine, yeah?”

“Very well. That’s fair compensation for your beverage, _Martin_ , and I need to get back to work. So if you don't mind?”

Without another word or even waiting for a reply, Jonathan turned back into his shop and let the store slam shut behind him.

Martin was still standing there, staring at the closed door, when his phone went off so many times in a row that it almost sounded like it was ringing. He jumped, swearing as he pulled it out of his pocket. There were so many texts from Tim and Sasha that all the screen showed was their names, and Martin quickly unlocked it to check the actual messages. His heart was hammering for an entirely different reason than it had been a moment ago, but the texts from Sasha were just concerned for his wellbeing; his job was safe.

The messages from Tim were concerned as well. But they also clarified that he had gone to meet Martin halfway, so they could bring a round of hot drinks back to the Institute with them. Another of the messages asked how Martin liked his tea, and the fifth was a selfie of Tim in front of the coffee shop he’d said he would be waiting at; his hair was mussed, and he looked playfully annoyed as he looked at his watch. The caption below it simply read: _where the hell are you?_

Somehow, it had taken over ten minutes to rescue sunflowers.

A frantic litany of ‘ _shit, shit, shit_ ’ spilling from his mouth, Martin grabbed the crushed cup off the street to dump into a nearby bin. Spinning on his heel, he started up an awkward jog towards the direction of the Institute with his bag knocking into him with every step. He texted Tim and Sasha back with one hand, apologizing profusely to both his coworkers and to the foot traffic he now had to dodge around.

With his other hand he kept the flower cradled close to his chest, his heartbeat once again thumping against his fingers. He just...really wasn’t good at running.

That was all.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin had almost convinced himself not to visit the florist again, when the carnation on his desk died.

It wasn’t his fault that his office looked so much gloomier without it, stuck as he was in the Archives without windows or even bland corporate art on the walls. The mass of red petals had brightened up his desk corner more than expected; Martin had found himself running his fingers gently over their fringed edges more than once. It made him smile to see the bloom sitting there, propped at a bit of an angle in the glass pop bottle he’d salvaged from the recycle and carefully cleaned for a vase.

After arriving to work that first day, flower clutched against him as Tim mercilessly tried to grill Martin about who had given it to him, Martin had spent half an hour looking up everything he could find about cut flower care. He identified the one leaning in its temporary coffee-mug-home as a carnation, and how to best care for it. For the next two weeks he had changed its water and cut its stem every day, fretted about if it was getting enough light from the fluorescents—and tried very hard not to think about the man who had given it to him.

There was no reason to think about him.

Jonathan Sims had been short-tempered and blunt. He’d been rude. He had been awkward and grouchy…and he’d given Martin a flower.

Martin groaned, face in his hands at his desk. No matter how many times he’d told himself he was better off never going back to the shop, he couldn’t forget the encounter. A couple petals of the carnation, salvaged before it expired, were pressed into a notebook and drying at the bottom of a stack of research material to his right. Sasha and Tim had asked more than once about the flower and why he’d been so late that day, but Martin had managed to produce a simple lie about helping an elderly woman who had given it to him as thanks. He wasn’t sure if they totally believed him, but they didn’t push it either.

The pop bottle glinted in the light when Martin lifted his head, and he sighed. It just looked so _lonely_ now. After a moment of staring, chewing his lip, he finally stood and grabbed his bag. It was a little bit earlier than he would usually leave, but it wasn’t like he was getting any work done; the Archives were pretty weird about scheduled hours, anyway. He wasn’t even sure if they _had_ scheduled hours. Tim was already gone, a text declaring he was off charming some poor source of information that wouldn’t stand a chance, but Sasha was sitting at her desk as she pored over some dusty statement. Martin rapped his knuckles gently against the door frame, and waved when she looked up at him.

“I’m, um going to head out now, if that’s okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Sasha looked him up and down quickly in an assessing way that was far less unnerving than when Mr. Bouchard did it. “You feeling okay? You’re sort of flushed.”

Of course the mention of it automatically made it worse, and Martin didn’t even try to resist the deeper red he knew was creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. He pushed up his glasses to both rub his eyes and cover at least some of his face, laughing dryly at how transparent he was. Sasha hummed, obviously accepting that as answer enough, and Martin heard the creak of her chair when she turned back to her desk.

“Go get some sleep,” she said, her tone light and friendly, “I’ll tell Tim to save his tale of self-sacrificial flirting until tomorrow so he doesn’t go texting you at midnight.”

The blush eased once Sasha wasn’t looking right at him, but there was still a lump in his throat. He mumbled a quick _thank you_ past it, and hurried out. A couple employees from other parts of the Institute waved at Martin as he left, and by the time he reached the Tube station he felt somewhat composed—at least enough to not freak out any of the other passengers. There were less of them than he was used to, the rush hour crowd he’d usually be packed in with still a while off and it gave him room to breathe.

But his composure took a dive when the stop that was, and wasn’t, his arrived.

It took all of his willpower to actually exit the station, eliciting a few puzzled looks from people when he had to grit his teeth just to make it onto the pavement. The café was there as before, bustling with after-work business. Solely for the comfort of tea, and _not_ because he was stalling, Martin pushed open the door and joined the line up. It was a different barista behind the counter, but they similarly had no reaction to his request for a large Earl Grey rather than coffee. Something about the lack of judgment, as small of a thing as it was, did relax him just the slightest bit. It relaxed him so much in fact, that when they asked if he wanted anything else, he said _yes._

“Sure,” the young woman said, hand pausing as she wrote the details of Martin’s drink on a cup, “what can I get you?”

“Um.” Martin gestured vaguely with the hand that was already holding his bank card, trying to order his thoughts. “Could I get a small of the same thing? But without sugar? Or milk?”

She nodded, and once again the staff proved so remarkably efficient that Martin found himself outside in mere minutes. He wasn’t nearly soothed or distracted enough from what he was about to do, but there wasn’t room to stand around on the pavement either; so he started walking. No one bumped into him, and he wasn’t sure if that was because of his size or the fact that he probably looked like he was heading to his execution.

Clutching the little cardboard tray with two cups, he regulated his breathing as best as he could while the combination of anticipation and apprehension made his hands shake. His stomach turned itself into an impressive knot that was definitely making him light-headed. His feet dragged. Every part of his body was making it clear that whatever bravery had gotten him off the train was long gone.

It was a small blessing that his phone didn’t go off, or he would have definitely doused himself in tea.

The shops were even quainter when they were open. Some of them had little displays set up outside and one was even playing music from a crackly old radio. But as much as Martin was tempted to stop and browse, he really only had eyes for the shop on the corner; his gaze was locked on the edge of the building that he could see as he edged past other pedestrians.

No one was looking through the flowers set out, and the door was firmly closed when he got there. For a moment, Martin thought he had arrived too late. He legitimately felt like he was going to be sick, until he saw the small ‘open’ sign propped up against the glass; though his nerves just changed tune instead of going away. It was actually hard to breathe his stomach was in such a complete riot when he managed to push the door open with his free hand.

He would have dawdled longer if the thought of being _seen_ dawdling hadn’t been too mortifying to risk. The shop had a lot of windows.

Jonathan was standing behind a counter, wearing a different coloured button-down shirt that looked to be of the same style as the last. The sleeves were carefully rolled to the elbow though, and Martin had to take a second to absorb that before he plastered what he hoped was a normal smile on his face and cleared his throat. It wasn’t his best attempt at casual, and it definitely sounded strangled, but when the other man looked up his expression was bland.

Until he saw who it was, and his brows immediately drew together.

“Oh. Mister—Martin.”

Well. That combination definitely did something funny to Martin’s already clamoring nerves. Especially the way Jonathan pronounced his first name; like the ‘r’ wasn’t quite worth the effort. All the carefully-planned and reasonably polite greetings Martin had mulled over on the Tube vanished along with that missing letter in his name, and he held up the tray in his hand like he was a waiter on the telly offering someone a hors d’oeuvre.

“Brought you some tea!” He said cheerfully, as if he wasn’t sure his soul was currently leaving his body that very instant. “I didn’t know how you took it, so I got them to give me cream and sugar on the side.”

“I… _What_?”

And surprisingly, there was none of the venom Martin had expected in Jonathan’s tone—because the man looked and sounded utterly _gobsmacked_.

His eyes flickered between the to-go cups and Martin like he was waiting for something sincerely unpleasant to come from either one of them, blinking rapidly all the while. He put down the pen he’d been holding and his jaw dropped just the slightest bit. The multitude of scars that covered his hands started to show starkly as they gripped the counter in front of him, the pressure bringing the dots and line up like constellations over his skin. He looked like he was trying very hard to be composed and losing.

The sight of such an unexpected lack of confidence actually made Martin feel the slightest—slightest—bit less like he was going to faint. Enough where he was able to find his voice for something that wasn’t completely random.

“Sorry. I, um, I actually wanted to buy a replacement flower. For the one y-you gave me? Because it died.” Martin put the tray down on the counter, pulling his cup free before he pushed the remaining cup over with what he hoped was a casual shrug. “But I stopped in the café first and, well…”

Some of the stiffness eased from Jonathan’s shoulders when nothing untoward happened to the tea as it was offered to him, and his expression settled somewhere that looked to be on the cautious side of neutral—or as neutral as he seemed able to look. He took the lid from the cup, adding in a packet of sugar and a couple of the single-serve creamers, but didn’t move to try drinking from it. It looked like he was doing it just to have something to do with his hands, but there was a precision that suggested it was still accurate to how he usually took his tea.

Martin tried not to make it too obvious that he was trying to memorize it.

“Did it die today?” Jonathan was still fiddling with the cup when he spoke, glancing up quickly when he did. There was an edge to his words, but it wasn’t hostile.

It took Martin a minute to realize that Jonathan meant the flower, too busy trying to interpret the tone of the man’s voice and having already forgotten what he’d said in his rush to follow up the fact that he’d offered an almost-complete stranger tea. He blushed as his mind replayed that agonizing moment once more for him in full Technicolor, and he looked at his hands. Picking at the seam of the cardboard sleeve that was plastered with the café’s logo, he nodded.

“Yeah. I mean it was looking rough the last couple days, but it was all shriveled when I got into work this morning.”

“So two weeks.” Jonathan wasn’t smiling when Martin looked up, but he looked like he might consider it. “…Not bad.”

Absurdly, Martin was pleased by that. He actually had to squash the urge to puff out his chest as if he had received a far higher compliment than a simple admission of competence. The confidence from the near-praise eased the stammer from his voice and he put his tea down, pushing the strap of his bag up so it didn’t slip off when he leaned one elbow on the counter.

“I changed the water every day and cut the stem, too! But my office doesn’t have windows and I didn’t think taking it out into the courtyard on my lunch was _really_ going to make a difference.”

Jonathan was almost certainly thinking about smiling now; Martin could see it in the way his lips were no longer pressed together so hard that they were thinned to nothing. Finally taking a sip of the tea he’d been brought, Jonathan’s fingers tapped against the cup in a way that spoke more of thought than impatience. He looked younger then, face unclouded by any sort of temper as he focused on Martin.

“Hm. It might have gotten you an extra day or two, but that’s all.”

And for a single moment they just looked at each other, Martin smiling and Jon almost there—until a passerby laughed so loudly they both jumped.

Somehow neither of them spilled their tea, but the calm had passed and Jonathan began to shuffle around papers that looked like order sheets. Martin cleared his throat, picking up his cup again and holding it to his chest like a shield against the awkwardness he could feel creeping in. He desperately looked around the shop for something else to ward it off, and his eyes locked onto a vase of red carnations. Remembering his original purpose he carefully pulled one out, and set it on the counter as he fumbled for his wallet.

“Anyway, um, like I said, or meant to say, actually, it really brightened the office, so if I could buy another that’d be great.”

“Yes, yes of course.” Jonathan seemed to jump at the opportunity for something to do, quickly scribbling something that looked like a maths problem on a corner of a notepad before he rang the flower through and gave Martin a total that was a fair bit lower than anticipated.

Unlike the last time, when he’d offered it on its own, Jonathan actually pulled a strip of paper off a roll and wrapped the carnation up after he’d given Martin his change. His movements were precise as he carefully folded and taped to protect the flower, and he even tied a tiny bow with what looked like fancy hay so the paper didn’t slide off. The elegance of the process was somewhat spoiled when Jonathan finished and had to hand it over, his movements suddenly stiff as he held it out.

Regardless of the fact that Martin had purchased it this time, he somehow felt even _more_ shy as he took the wrapped flower and held it close. Taking it from the other man’s hand, presented as it was in paper and trimming, made it feel unbearably more like something he ought to overthink.

“Well, I should probably go, then.” Martin took a step back before he froze up entirely, fidgeting with the scratchy little bow. “So, uh, have a good night, Jonathan.”

His hand was actually on the door when he heard the sound of a throat being cleared, and Martin glanced back to see that Jonathan had come out from behind the counter. He wasn’t actually approaching, but something about the fact that he’d at least made the effort to stand _closer_ felt like it meant something. There was a long pause, but not so long that Martin felt any more awkward than he already did, and Jonathan reached up to scratch at one of the odd scars on his cheek.

“It’s Jon.”

“Huh?”

“I…You can call me Jon.” He met Martin’s eyes then, and shrugged. “If you come by again.”

“Oh.”

And for once, the warmth that spread across Martin’s face and turned his cheeks to crimson didn’t make him feel like hiding. It was…a good feeling. It started in his chest, and he smiled as it spread through him. He used his shoulder to prop open the door, his half-full tea and the carnation held in one hand as ran the other through his hair. He was smiling so hard that he felt his glasses actually shift higher on the bridge of his nose, and it didn’t help when the other man actually smiled back. It was a fraction of what Martin would usually consider worth mentioning, but it was _there_.

“Okay. I’ll see you later, then, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick update because I really wanted to at least leave you guys with the romance starting, haha. After this point updates will happen when they happen, although I'll do my best not to make the wait too long! Thanks to everyone who already left kudos or comments on chapter 1 <3 (I'm also on tumblr as thecrowmaiden too, if you want to talk anything TMA!)


	3. Chapter 3

Within a month and a half, the barista knew Martin’s order.

He was touched, honestly. Even though he only showed up at the café once a week, by the sixth visit she greeted him by name and was ringing in two cups of tea before he’d managed to say hello. It was obviously just because she had the same shift every day and recognized when there were repeat customers, but it still made him happy. Being a ‘regular’ was nice. It was nice to be welcome, and expected. He tucked some extra change into the tip jar when the barista wasn’t looking, careful to not let it clink, and headed out the door with his cardboard tray.

Taking a moment in the pale dawn light to yawn hugely, Martin walked down to the other shop where he was becoming a regular. He did like to privately think he was more of a visitor, or a guest—something more personal than just a customer. Sure, he bought a flower each time, but that wasn’t _why_ he kept coming by. The flower was just…a reason. An easily produced and justified one he could give Jon, and Tim and Sasha, and even himself. His actual reason for coming by had a lot less to do with the carnation.

Martin abruptly shook his head, tucking that train of thought away before he could start blushing. He really didn’t need any help on that front already. Moving the tea into one hand, he walked the last few steps up the pavement and took a deep breath. None of the lights were on inside the shop, but the sun filtering through the windows was enough for him to see that it appeared empty.

The door was unlocked when Martin tried it, as Jon had promised him it would be. Another yawn interrupted his attempt at calling out a greeting, and he had to blink exhaustion-tears from his eyes as he shuffled over to the counter and placed the tray down. At least the bell at the door would have alerted Jon that Martin was there. Pushing his glasses up to his forehead, he pulled out a tissue and wiped his face.

“Jon?” He called, just in case the other man was hiding from what could potentially be a burglar. “Are you in?”

All Martin heard in return was a grunt, and he looked across the shop to see Jon biting his lip and staggering under the weight of a full bucket of gladioli. With a yelp and without even bothering to put his glasses back on, Martin leapt forward so fast he almost tripped. But he managed to hold his balance, and took the flowers from Jon over the other man’s grumbled objections.

“Jon! Honestly, I told you I’d be by to help with the heavier stuff; you could have waited. Go on, go sit and drink your tea while it’s hot.”

“Really, Martin, it is _my_ shop and I am perfectly capable—”

“Of drinking tea, yes.” Martin’s firm tone was at odds to his blush, but he propped the bucket against his side and gently nudged Jon towards the counter all the same.

With his glasses still sitting in his hair, he didn’t catch the nuance of Jon’s expression, but Martin was pretty sure it was something like ‘begrudging acceptance’; it was an expression he’d seen a lot of the last couple weeks. He couldn’t help that his protective tendencies overrode his usual shyness around the other man, and over the course of their visits Martin had found plenty of reason to fuss over Jon.

Martin set the gladioli down where they were supposed to go, glancing over his shoulder to watch Jon sipping his tea. He was sorting through paperwork as he did, because god forbid that Jon ever actually _relaxed_ , but Martin hid a smile in the blooms all the same; the focus with which Jon approached his work was sort of the best and worst thing about him. His insistence on starting his day so disgustingly early was the only reason Martin was able to visit like this, after all. And if he worked less, Martin would see him less. Or have to ask which days that Jon worked, and even in Martin’s head that question felt horrifyingly hard to broach. So Martin brought tea and sometimes snacks so he could work and chat with Jon while he could. Even if Jon never actually took the time he was gaining to rest.

Although…Martin had to admit, it was cute when Jon got so focused that he forgot he’d put the pen in his hair and ended up with more than one there.

Picking up another bucket of the flowers before he got caught staring, Martin shuffled around until he’d placed the heaviest of the ones that needed to go out into their displays. He was breathing a little hard when he finished, because he really wasn’t in the greatest shape, and his throat felt a bit scratchy from the force of his own breath. Since he had a perfectly good cup of tea that was right next to a certain florist, he went over to the counter to get a sip. But he’d no sooner gotten there, and smiled at Jon to ease him into conversation, when Martin had to whip his head around to sneeze.

Explosively.

Tucking his face into the elbow of his jacket, the sound still echoed throughout the shop. Like the absolute worst of old-man sneezes. A second one was so forceful it dropped his glasses back down his face. Jon actually made a noise that could have been annoyance—or potentially concern—at the third sneeze, and fished a tissue out of his pocket that he shoved into Martin’s line of sight. Eyes streaming, Martin managed to sniffle a thank you as he took the proffered square and tried to mop up the damage. Tim was going to think he’d been _crying_ at this rate.

“Allergies?” Jon asked, as Martin finished wiping his face and honked into the tissue.

“No, I don’t, don’t have any.” Martin cleared his throat, wincing at how phlegmy he sounded. “Least not to flowers. Or that I know of.”

“That’s fortunate.”

“Yeah, guess so. Do you have any?” A couple sips of tea helped Martin sound less like he’d acquired a headcold, and he tucked the tissue into his pocket. “Allergies, I mean.”

Jon tapped a pen—two were still in his bun, half-hidden amongst his streaky hair—on a notepad covered with scribbles. His glasses were at the end of his nose, giving Martin an unobstructed view of his intense eyes—that were currently unfocused as he considered the question. It was beyond stereotypical to call someone’s eyes _deep_ , but Martin had no idea how else to describe them. He looked away quickly when Jon’s gaze sharpened.

“…Lilies.”

His disgust was so plain when he finally answered, that Martin almost laughed. Jon looked like just saying the word made him ill. There was something amusing about Jon naming a flower with the animosity one might reserve for an arch-nemesis.

“Now that you mention it, I never have seen lilies in here. Isn’t that a problem for your, uh, sales?”

“No. There are multiple reasons not to keep them in stock that makes their absence relevant to others.” Jon extended his bony fingers and began to tick said reasons off with a disdainful sniff. “Yes, I am allergic to them, but so are many other people. The pollen stains. They’re generally barred from hospitals. And they’re _poisonous_ to _cats_.”

The last comment was spoken like it was the worst affront Jon could imagine, and Martin had to hide his smile behind the plastic to-go lid of his tea. He probably didn’t do a very good job of it, judging by the way Jon raised an eyebrow, but it was still better than just soppily gazing at him because Martin found that new information incredibly endearing.

“You like cats, then?”

“You don’t?”

“What? No, no, of course I like cats. I just. Didn’t guess that you did?”

It would seem that Martin had been holding onto his composure for too long. As soon as the question caught him off guard, he promptly started babbling—and couldn’t stop. His thoughts just kept coming without stopping to make sense of themselves.

“I-I mean you seem really particular about your clothes. Not that it’s a bad thing! They’re nice clothes. I mean, it’s just pet hair is a thing and, and cats have hair?”

Martin almost clapped a hand over his own mouth to stop the words that were still spilling out, and in the in the silence that followed he almost ran straight out the door.

His shoulders inched up towards his ears as he waited for the acidic reply Jon was no doubt going to deliver in response to Martin putting his whole entire foot into his own mouth. But instead, Jon just tipped his head ever so slightly, as if he was trying to read something that he couldn’t quite see. Then he reached over and plucked Martin’s usual single carnation out from the vase he had started to leave within arm’s reach.

“Yes, most cats do. It’s soft. I happen to like petting it.”

And what happened next was probably a trick of the light slanting in through the windows, but Martin _swore_ that Jon’s gaze flicked to Martin’s hair before dropping back to the counter. It was too ridiculous to consider though, just like the fact that Jon almost looked like he was blushing. Neither of those things could have happened, and Martin did his best to pretend he’d never entertained the thought that they did. His best was about as good as his earlier attempt to hide his smile, though.

Meaning it wasn’t good at all.

To take his mind off whatever just hadn’t happened, Martin checked his watch—and sighed. The embarrassment abruptly drained out of him, leaving nothing but disappointment. It was time for him to leave. The precious twenty-some minutes he managed to carve out once a week were already over, and he needed to get to his own job before he was late again. For once, Jon seemed to share Martin’s sentiment, and he looked almost apologetic as he held out the already-wrapped carnation.

Martin couldn’t help but mope the tiniest bit as he handed Jon the exact change and watched as they both carefully didn’t touch the other’s fingers in the process. For the first time, Martin noticed that Jon’s avoidance had what might have been shyness to it; rather than the disgust he had first assumed it was. But what that shyness was covering for he didn’t know—and he wasn’t about to ask. So Martin took his paper-wrapped flower without their hands even coming close, and told himself it was fine.

The alarm on his phone that meant he really, _really_ had to leave went off, and Martin sighed again as he stepped away from the counter.

“Well, have a good day, Jon.”

“You as well, Martin.”

A few clouds were keeping the heat at bay when he finally dragged himself out the door and onto the street, resettling his bag as he started walking. When he glanced over his shoulder at the flower shop, Jon was standing at the window and staring into space. He looked thoughtful, and unfocused. Martin waved once, brave only because he was expecting it to go unnoticed, and his heart almost stopped when Jon waved back.

The butterflies that surged in his stomach practically had him floating back to the Institute, the walk going by in what felt like seconds, and Martin had to take a minute out of sight of the entrance to stop grinning like a fool. He’d already admitted to his coworkers that he was stopping by a florist that was owned by someone who was neither old, nor a lady, after all. That alone had already gotten him gently teased by Sasha and Tim alike, and he couldn’t give Tim any more reason to wink and waggle his eyebrows suggestively in the break room.

At least he couldn’t if he wanted to keep his nerves intact; it was getting too hard to hide how much he _really_ wanted there to be something to wink about.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter, with lots of Tim and Sasha goodness! (And a little bit of Tim and Jon verbal sparring)

Sometime after nine every morning, there was a space of about an hour when the hallways of the Archive were even quieter than usual. Everyone was settled in with something to work on but hadn’t been at it long enough to need or justify a tea break. Lunch was too far away to even _think_ about, much less discuss with someone else. Elias would walk through like a bloody king surveying his dusty kingdom at least once, pretending he wasn’t trying to find out the latest gossip, before disappearing upstairs to do whatever management did—which was probably nothing. It was quiet, and boring, and _dull._

In short, it was Tim’s least favourite part of the day.

He had his feet propped up on his desk, in preparation for Elias’s little walk of intimidation that only ever scared Martin, and rocked back in his chair. Tim had started purposefully leaving his office a bit of a disaster to see if he could draw some of the boss’s attention towards himself, but Elias was one of those bastards that _knew_ who was and wasn’t scared of him. So Martin got spoken to over something as minimal as a crooked jumper, but the mess of case files Tim was piling in one corner were ignored without fail. He really hoped that Sasha had meant it when she said they weren’t important; the papers were definitely knee-deep by now.

“If you fall backwards, you’re going to break something.”

“Hey, it’s good boss!” Tim leaned back a bit farther, grinning upside down at the doorway from his chair when he heard Sasha’s voice. He hooked one foot under the desk when he wobbled, ignoring her pointed look. “I was just thinking about you.”

“Do I want to know what you were thinking?

“Probably not.” Tim gave Sasha his best leer, the one she absolutely knew was fake. She predictably rolled her eyes at it, and Tim laughed.

Looking at her the wrong way up was giving him a crick in his neck though, not to mention he was starting to feel light-headed, so Tim sat up properly and took his feet off his desk.

Except…there wasn’t really enough room amongst the clutter to do so gracefully. Even bending his knees, he kicked a pile of old papers right off when he moved his legs. Pages and slim-bound reports scattered across the floor, fanning out in an arc when his heel caught the top of the pile and sent them flying like academic confetti. Tim winced, and Sasha sighed as a couple slid all the way over to where she stood in the doorway.

Picking the papers up, she walked over to his desk and stacked them onto another pile before she sat down in the space Tim had just accidentally cleared. She leaned her elbow on a stack of books, and her mock-stern expression finally slipped into a smile. It would have been the perfect image for Elias to see: Sasha sitting on the desk and leaning towards Tim who hadn’t even properly buttoned his shirt that morning, archival materials carpeting the floor in disarray.

But they had no such luck, and Tim sighed in slight disappointment when the hallway remained empty.

“So what’s up?” He asked Sasha, reaching out to tug the strap of her purse that she rarely carried within the Institute. “Isn’t it a bit early for us to run off to lunch?”

“It is, but we’re not going for lunch.” She had a gleam in her eye that Tim knew was rarely seen by anyone besides him. “We’re going on a field trip.”

“Field _trip_ or field _work_?”

“A little of both.” Sasha pulled out her phone, tapping at it briefly before turning it to face him. It was a Google search result, but she had expanded the picture to take up most of the screen. The first thing he picked out was a mass of blurry flowers, and he was wondering what was so special until he saw the sign above them—and immediately zeroed in on the name.

“That’s the place Martin’s been going.”

“Exactly. It’s about time we went and scoped it out.”

“In person?” Tim poked Sasha in the leg, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Even if I had looked him up like usual, I’d still want to check how he is in real life.” Sasha poked Tim back, aiming for his ribs. “But he really has next to no presence on the internet; no social media, nothing. Which means the only way we can make sure he’s worth Martin’s time is the old-fashioned way.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to worry if he’s worth Martin’s time? It’s been months, and our boy is already in deep.”

Tim was only being contrary for the sake of it, though. He’d already gotten up, while Sasha was still talking, buttoning his shirt with one hand and digging his wallet out from under a report to shove into his back pocket with the other. His coat he grabbed from the filing cabinet he’d thrown it over when he’d gotten in, and Sasha waved him over once he had it on. When she pulled his comb from the pocket and raked it through his hair, Tim stuck his tongue out at her. But she just stuck her tongue out right back, and folded his collar down.

“The thing is, I didn’t think we needed to worry.” Sasha hopped off the desk and picked her way over the scattered papers towards the door, now that Tim looked presentable. “I thought Martin was just trying to make a friend that wasn’t us, but I caught him mooning over that flower yesterday and realized he’s got it bad.”

“Bad is an understatement.”

“Well, that’s why we’re checking this Jon fellow out. Martin’s such a hopeless romantic; someone has to look out for him.”

“Works for me.” Tim swept Sasha a bow. “Lead on, boss!”

Side by side they beelined it out of the Institute, stalling only long enough to leave Martin with a project and Elias with an excuse. Once they were out the doors though, Sasha’s firm stride slowed to match Tim’s stroll, and they joked in the easy shorthand of media references and long friendship as they followed the directions set out by their phones. It didn’t take long before the conversation returned to Martin, and they got down to the business of compiling information.

“You’ve probably heard more than I have,” Sasha mused, “seeing as you’re not the ‘boss’. What do you know about him?”

She was blowing the steam from her cup as she nibbled on one of the pastries they’d stopped to get as a mid-morning snack. They’d agreed to skip the Tube and just walk the thirty-some minutes it apparently took on foot. It was easier to hear each other for one thing, and it gave them the excuse that they needed something to fuel them for their field trip. Like sweets. Tim fished out a chocolate croissant from the paper bag, and took a bite.

“He’s a florist and he owns the shop. Oh, and he’s short.”

“Seriously, Tim?”

“What, do you know anything else from your internet sleuthing? Martin has been amazingly tight-lipped about the details for all that he keeps gushing about the man. Except he’s not gushing, of course.”

Sasha sighed in defeat, and finished off her scone.

“His name is Jonathan Sims, and he’s around our age. Went to university, but honestly that’s all I’ve got. I couldn’t even find a picture.”

“We should have just nicked Martin’s poetry notebook.”

“Tim!”

Grinning, Tim dodged Sasha’s playful swat at his shoulder before he slung an arm around hers and pulled her against his side. She wrinkled her nose at him, but switched her cup to her other hand so she could lean against him anyway. It didn’t bother either of them if people assumed they were a couple—it kept from guys from creeping on Sasha if they did, and they’d been friends too long to care. Not to mention it always expedited things when no one was trying to flirt with them. So they stayed that way without even thinking about the fact that they were, chatting aimlessly as they finished their drinks and Tim stole the last of the biscuits.

It was decently busy when they got to the florist, people milling about and checking the outdoor displays. After a moment waiting on the pavement, Tim realized the people were really just stopping by for a look as they went from shop to shop rather than actual customers. He didn’t feel guilty pushing past them to get to the door in that case, and he gently tugged Sasha along through the crowd. Some of the price tags on the flowers they passed had smiley-faces drawn on in what Tim could recognize as Martin’s hand, and he nudged Sasha to silently point them out.

When they got inside, there was already someone in the process of purchasing a bouquet. Tim and Sasha stayed a few steps back, checking out the other pre-made bouquets set up in the little cooler. They looked nice enough, not that Tim knew flowers very well. The man at the counter who was wrapping the stems up in cellophane was somewhat blocked from both of their views by the customer, but—by virtue of being taller and using the reflection in the glass—Tim could tell he was wearing a sweater vest and glasses, hair gathered up in a bun.

 _Christ_ , Tim thought, _Martin_ **_would_** _fall in love with a hipster._

But at second glance the man’s hair was pretty heavily streaked with grey, and fine lines framed his eyes; he really didn’t look to be in the same age bracket as the archive team. When the woman left with her flowers he didn’t greet Tim and Sasha, either. No smile, so wave. He just glanced at them and gave the slightest incline of his head before turning back to the vase that was in front of him.

Tim traded a look with Sasha and knew she was thinking the same thing he was: whoever the man was, he couldn’t possibly be Martin’s ‘Jon’.

They weren’t about to leave without doing their due diligence, though. It could be they’d just come in while he was on his lunch, or in the back office doing paper work. Simple enough to find out with a couple questions, and if they really were out of luck they could at least find out when to come back. Sasha nodded at Tim when he raised an eyebrow in question at her, and he nodded back.

“Hey there!” Tim crossed the shop, propping one elbow on the counter and the other on his hip. It was a friendly, open pose that also made sure he wasn’t looming over the shorter man, and he flashed a winning smile. Sasha always insisted that if Tim wanted to brag about being charismatic he ought to make use of it. “Is the owner in today?”

The man at the counter had already drawn back when Tim had gotten close and his neutral expression shifted to a scowl when Tim spoke, putting down the yellow flower he’d been about to place in the vase. He crossed his arms tightly over his thin chest, fingers clenched as one hand settled on a lump under his jumper that was probably a cell phone. A muscle in his jaw visibly twitched, even under the generous amount of stubble that covered his chin. That angular chin drew up mulishly, and he _glared._

“I beg your pardon?”

His tone was suspicious, his pose was hostile, and Tim backpedalled hard—in every way he could.

“Whoa, whoa!” He held up his hands placatingly, physically leaning away. “It’s nothing bad. We’re visiting on behalf of a friend, that’s all. If Jonathan isn’t in, we can come back another day.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I _am not stupid_.” The man’s voice unbelievably got icier as he took another step back. He was definitely holding onto a phone now, the screen lighting up through his clothes when he squeezed it. “Take your pranks elsewhere.”

“What?” Tim looked at Sasha, but she looked just as baffled as he felt; he had no idea what they were doing wrong. “We’re just trying to find—”

“Jonathan Sims, yes! And since that would be me, and I am the only person who works at this shop, either tell me why you’re actually here or go away.”

They should have stolen the poetry notebook after all. Leave it to Martin not to mention that his crush was a crabby little thing that didn’t look their age in the slightest.

“Oh, Christ.” Tim winced, smiled ruefully, and hoped he looked apologetic enough that the irate florist didn’t call the cops. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten off on the wrong foot so badly. “We weren’t trying to rile you up, mate. Honest. Just some bad assumptions at play here, we didn’t realize who you were.”

Jonathan still didn’t look entirely convinced.

“So the friend you were visiting on behalf of—?”

“We work with Martin.” Sasha finally piped up, voice soothing as she pulled out an Institute business card to place on the counter. “He’s mentioned you a lot and we just…we just…”

“Just wanted to see who’s been trying to steal our research partner.” Tim finished for her, aiming for a touch of humour as he gave the other man a friendly wink. “Covert mission, that kind of thing.”

But as soon as the words left his mouth, he saw that his attempt to lighten the mood was ill-timed. Jonathan’s eyebrows drew back together so sharply that Tim honestly expected to hear them click, and the man squeezed his crossed arms so tightly that his shirt sleeves were scrunched up like accordions. His phone had made it into his hand, and he was so tense his tendons showed clearly through his skin. He pretty much radiated discomfort.

“Steal? I can assure you, I have zero intention of having M—Mister Blackwood work here.”

And something about the tone, the way he brushed off the thought like it would never happen, like he wouldn’t even consider it, put Tim’s back up and put it up bad. Sure, Martin wasn’t perfect, but he was kind and loyal and he deserved so much better. Tim tried to keep his expression from turning into something as cold as the one on Jonathan’s face, but he knew he was getting damn close.

“Oh yeah?” Tim leaned on the counter, using his height to take up space as he gestured around the shop with one arm. He knew he was losing his temper, but couldn’t stop. “You say that, but I can tell he’s been doing a lot for you around here. Or are you the one putting smiley-faces on the price tags?”

“I never asked him to do it.” Jonathan’s voice was absolutely cutting, and his eyes were hard behind his glasses. “He insists upon it, so if you have issue with that you will have to _take it up with him._ ”

“Excuse me? Who do you think you—”

“ _Tim_.”

It almost stuck in his throat, but Tim swallowed the rest of his sentence at the sound of Sasha’s tone and the pressure of her hand on his arm. Martin would never forgive them if they ruined things for him—even if there was nothing there to actually ruin—and there was an uncomfortable feeling at the back of Tim’s throat when he realized he might already have done so. Bringing Martin’s name into it and then almost coming to blows with the object of his affection certainly wasn’t going to help, that was for sure.

But his pride still rankled at the way the florist had dismissed them, all of them, and he only unclenched his hands when Sasha moved so she was between him and _Jonathan Sims._

“I think we’ve all had a bit of a misunderstanding. We’re not concerned about what Martin does off the clock, we just wanted to meet the person whose company he enjoys so much.” Sasha picked out two of the red flowers that Martin always bought, setting them on the counter as she opened her purse. She carefully kept herself between the two men, but in an easy way that looked unintentional. “Can I get these wrapped up to take back for him?”

It was clearly a peace offering, and the florist’s hackles went down the slightest bit. He also…appeared to be blushing.

Tim almost had to do a double-take to make sure that yes, there was a hint of colour in the other man’s dark cheeks. On someone like Martin it would have been pretty obvious, too, and Tim marvelled that in mere seconds Sasha had reduced Jonathan from prickly jerk to awkwardly shy. What had she even said that shut him up so fast? It couldn’t just be Martin’s name, they’d already mentioned that to no effect. Nor could it be buying the flowers; he definitely didn’t seem like the kind to back down over a few pounds.

Was it because Sasha had said that Martin liked Jonathan’s _company_? Was there something there after all?

Eyeing Jonathan over the top of Sasha’s head as she made their purchase and waited for it to be wrapped up, Tim supposed he could objectively say that the man had a certain charm—the snark might be appealing when it wasn’t directed at you. He wasn’t bad looking, either, once you took a second look. He had a job that appeared to be successful, personal hygiene, and basically checked off the minimum for being a dateable person.

But most importantly, the way he treated the flowers suggested that he cared to some extent about the person they were going to. Tim had no doubt that if Sasha had said they were just for her, they would have been rolled up like a cheap cigarette. Instead they were covered by two layers of surprisingly pretty paper, and tied with a careful bow. The man even fussed with it for a quick second, smoothing the loops as the colour in his face deepened past a hint.

…If Martin did end up with Jonathan, it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for him. Maybe.

“Well, we ought to be going,” Sasha said, taking the flowers. “Sorry again for all this.”

There was a very long silence as Jonathan gave no response, apart from a shrug that was probably meant to be nonchalant but was too stiff to pull off. Tim realized he was the one who was supposed to say something when Sasha gave him a sharp look, and when she added an elbow to his ribs he begrudgingly echoed her apology.

“Yeah, sorry.”

There was a slight quirk to the corner of Jonathan’s mouth as Tim turned around, and Sasha was just walking out when the florist spoke.

“Try to introduce yourselves in the future. _Some_ people don’t know who you are.”

The door swung shut behind them on the last word, thumping into Tim’s back like it was shoving him out of the shop. He had to immediately move out of the way of another customer coming up, so he joined Sasha where she was already waiting for him by a street bin as she checked her phone. Standing there, out on the pavement with Jonathan’s parting shot still ringing in his ears, Tim blew out a very, very long breath.

“That guy,” he declared, “is a _prick_.”

“Yeah.” Sasha patted his arm with her free hand as they turned back towards the Institute, still looking at her phone as he fell in step with her. “I kinda liked him, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

An empty sandwich packet sat next to a half-drunk cup of tea, both of them pushed as far away from the piled papers as they could go without being in danger of falling off Martin’s desk entirely. The case that Sasha had dropped off for him that morning took up several folders it had so many—dutifully recorded—dead ends, and it was _weird._ Not even weird in a way that might make it seem like there was something bigger at play, either. It just didn’t make sense, and his research was going nowhere.

“What on earth is wrong with you?”

Martin literally jumped, his chair falling over and the makeshift vase on his desk wobbling precariously as he shot upright with a faint squeak of surprise. He grabbed the bottle before it could fall, holding it tight to his chest and swearing under his breath as Tim stuck his head round the doorway.

“For the love of—Tim! I asked you not to do that!”

“Sorry mate. But seriously, what is wrong with you?”

“I-Ignoring that that’s _kind of_ inappropriate, what is this in regards to?”

“Oh you know, just your taste in men.” Tim produced a pair of red carnations from behind his back. “Honestly, Martin. If I knew you liked _abrasive_ so much I could have set you up with some sandpaper.”

Martin’s heart launched into his throat, hit something, stuck, and dropped into his stomach with all the force of a brick. After a moment, his stomach decided it couldn’t handle the extra weight and both organs dropped into his shoes. It felt like his lungs might have joined them as well. Gripping the bottle like an anchor, Martin silently begged the floor to open so the rest of him could keep going.

He felt like he was dying, actually-going-to-stop-breathing dying, as Tim sauntered over and tucked the wrapped carnations into the crook of Martin’s arm. That was definitely the paper from Jon’s shop. Martin opened his mouth to deny anything and everything, but all that came out was a wheeze—a vague, spluttering wheeze that was more damning than the hidden notebook containing his absolutely _flowery_ poems.

Tim, to his credit, appeared to take pity on him at that point. Picking up the fallen chair, he put it to rights before he moved back towards the hall and out of Martin’s personal space. He tucked his hands into his pockets with his usual roguish grin, and leaned against the doorframe.

“You could have told us he looks older than he is. Would have saved us some trouble.”

“I just—but you—I wasn’t expecting you to go _see_ him!” Martin almost wailed, dropping into his thankfully upright chair and ignoring its unhappy creak. “Why would you see him, anyway? What on Earth did you _do_?”

“Relax, Sasha and I just wanted to make sure he was a nice kind of boy.”

And there went Martin’s organs again. The paper around the carnations crinkled when his arms seized up, and he forced himself to put the flowers down on his desk along with the bottle he was still holding. He swallowed, trying hard not to imagine all the scenarios that could have played out between Jon and his coworkers that would have qualified as ‘trouble’—because most of them came with a feeling of imminent disaster. There was no way it had ended well at all.

“Great.” His lips felt numb. “I can’t—I can’t ever go back.”

“It didn’t go _that_ bad.” Tim soothed, even if he did look ever-so-slightly pained when he said it. “Besides, I think he’d miss you.”

“Wait, what?”

Martin perked up so fast the chair creaked again, running a hand through his hair as he leaned forwards. His nerves thrummed for an entirely different reason as he fussed with his jumper, practically hugging himself. “You really think so? _Really_? Why? Did—did he say something?”

“Nothing like that, just a feeling.”

Tim sighed then, and ran his hand through his own hair. It was a less exuberant gesture than Martin’s had been. In fact, it looked almost unsure…and Tim was never unsure. Something about it made Martin nervous. He started to chew the inside of his cheek as Tim walked over to the other side of the desk.

There was a wobbly footstool there, piled with books that Martin kept meaning to put away, and Tim gingerly sat down on it once he’d moved them to the floor. It was too short for his long legs and he would have looked comical, had he been grinning per his usual. But he wasn’t. Instead, his voice and expression were both uncharacteristically gentle when he spoke next.

“Do you even know if he’s…well, available, like that?”

Apparently, Martin was just doomed to be an emotional roller-coaster for the entire conversation. He slumped back down, and the urge to cry prickled at the corners of his eyes; it took more than a little effort to not start right then and there. Tim _would_ ask the one question that stabbed right into the heart of his insecurities. If Tim had just ribbed him about it like everything else, Martin could have laughed it off or redirected the conversation like it wasn’t painful. They could have just joked their way past the crush that he was terrified was going nowhere, and treated it like any other bit of office gossip that meant nothing beyond something to talk about over a drink.

But they were being serious, and Martin felt honesty bubble up in his chest like emotional heartburn.

“…I don’t.” It physically hurt to admit it out loud, to force the words from where they ate away at the back of his mind—nothing like the fear of being rejected for more than the usual reasons. A tear spotted the paper on his desk. “He’s nice, he is, but…I’m just—just hoping I guess. Not really something I can ask him without being, well, _weird_.”

Tim made a _tch_ noise at that, shaking his head as he handed over the box of bargain tissues that every office had one of. Mr. Bouchard must have bought them in bulk several years ago. They were a little dusty, since Martin avoided them in favour of his own tissues _and_ actually had a proper cloth to clean his glasses, but he took one anyway. Tim hesitated, before balancing the box next to Martin’s elbow, and then took out his phone.

“Sasha managed to find something she thought you should see, but I’m not sure about it. I don’t want it to give you false hope or makes things worse for you.”

“I don’t think things _can_ get much worse at this point,” Martin said into the tissue, and he shrugged helplessly.

“Fair point, mate.” Tim laughed, and he had a fond smile on his face when he slid his phone across the desk. There was sympathy mixed into his expression too, and Martin felt his throat go tight with the knowledge that he had friends who really cared about him. “This wasn’t easy to find though, so you better say thanks to the boss lady when you see her next.”

The photo on the screen was of a university pride parade, all colour and movement. It was a little bit blurry, the kind of quality you would expect from someone’s personal social media rather than anything the university posted themselves. None of the faces in the foreground were recognizable as anyone Martin knew, much less anyone he _wanted_ to know, and he gave Tim a look that was more than a little reproachful. But Tim just tapped at the top corner, both to zoom in on the image and draw attention to a figure at the edge of the frame.

Jon.

He was younger, hair just above his shoulders and far less grey. The frames of his glasses were a different shape too, rounder and less square. It wasn’t clear enough to see if there were fewer lines around his eyes, but it was almost comforting to see that he was still as short and bony as ever. Martin successfully resisted the urge to snatch up Tim’s phone to better study it, just pulling it closer instead, when he saw the arm around Jon’s shoulders and his heart plummeted.

A frankly gorgeous woman, draped in the colours of the bi flag and wearing make-up that matched, was pulling Jon in close to her with a grin. They didn’t seem to be posing or anything of the sort; nothing in Jon’s body language suggested she was a stranger or that the contact was unwelcome. He might even have been smiling.

“Looks like a girlfriend,” Tim pointed out, in a tone that said he was sorry to do it. “And he’s not wearing anything obvious, but…Sasha noticed he is wearing a purple tie. Could be bi, could be ace, I can’t tell.”

Martin focused on the blurred little speck of purple, the section of necktie poking out from under collar and vest. As far as Martin could tell from their acquaintance up until then, Jon didn’t seem the type to wear bold colours as a daily thing; he generally stuck to earth tones. What were the odds he would choose to wear something like that to a pride parade without meaning to? Surely the woman with him would have told him what it could be taken as?

“I can see where your train of thought is going, you know.” Tim sighed. “This is what I meant by not getting your hopes up.”

“What? No, I—”

“It could be either of those things but it could also be neither; you have to remember that.” Tim stressed, leaning forward to point at the screen. “He could also still be with that girl. Honestly, the only thing this really means is that he shouldn’t freak out when you tell him you’re gay.”

Martin spluttered.

“Oh, because that’s _so easy_ to just drop into a conversation!”

But Tim just took the sarcasm in stride, reaching over to clap Martin on the shoulder good-naturedly. His knees bumped the desk when he did, and for the second time that day Martin had to rescue his vase. The atmosphere lifted, and Tim gently tweaked a petal on the carnation that Martin practically had his face buried into. With his roguish grin back full force, Tim bopped the flower against Martin’s nose.

“Sure it is! Just remember that attitude and if he’s single, you’ll be more than a match for that little cactus of yours.”

“ _Cactus?_ ”

Martin’s squeak of protest went unanswered, and Tim stood up properly to stretch.

“Sasha said you can leave at four today to visit him, but try not to be too obvious so Elias doesn’t get in a snit.” Tim tucked his phone back in his pocket, and winked. “Oh, and you definitely owe us a drink. Those flowers aren’t cheap.”

With another huge wink he walked out the door before Martin could respond, whistling cheerily all the way.

Heaving a huge sigh, Martin slumped down as if he could melt right off his chair. He arranged the bottle on the corner of his desk where it belonged, and where it would hopefully be undisturbed for the rest of the day, fitting it into the lines of the faint water mark that stained the cheap wood. Picking up the other carnations, he carefully tugged on the bow until it came undone, and slid them from the paper. The scissors he kept in his pen jar made quick work of the bottom of the stems before he popped them into the vase as well, and he wiped the blades off on the tissue he’d been using earlier.

With a quick glance to make sure no one was hiding around the corner, Martin also carefully cut out a piece from each of the two sheets of wrapping. A folder buried at the bottom of all the most boring and dead-end cases he’d found was filled with similar pieces of paper—little souvenirs that lasted long after the flowers had died.

Martin hadn’t been kidding when he’d told Tim he really didn’t think it could get any worse.

His organs filtered back up to where they were supposed to be after he tucked the folder into hiding again, his stomach no longer a rock of mortification sitting in his shoes. It still wasn’t happy though. Because a couple drinks would only be a small thing to owe Tim and Sasha _if_ he didn’t know that they would expect him to stay and have a drink with them, too. Martin groaned, rubbing a hand over his face as his cheeks began to burn just from the thought of the hard time they were going to give him. Maybe he could get away with just leaving the money on Sasha’s desk instead. It wasn’t like the flowers cost that much anyway.

Wait.

The carnations _were_ incredibly cheap. Martin had repeatedly thanked his lucky stars that they were, or else he would have to see Jon even less than he already did. Even with the two cups of tea he bought each time, the total for his little outings wasn’t too high to discourage him from going. He’d probably even go more, if he wasn’t worried what Jon would think of that. So why had Tim suggested the flowers were expensive? Tim wasn’t the kind to fuss over money, not like Martin. It didn’t make sense, not unless…

“Don’t be stupid.” Martin had to say the words out loud—sternly—to cut off his train of thought even as his heart considered going traveling again. “Jon is _not_ giving you a discount. He wouldn’t.”

But what if he was? The carnations never did have a price tag on them.

Groaning helplessly for what seemed like the thousandth time, Martin pushed his glasses up and put his head down on his desk. Without bothering to even look, he reached to where he had childishly taped his notebook of poems to the underside of the sliding panel for his keyboard. It was apparently another day where he wasn’t going to get any work done until he cleared his mind. Hopefully Tim was satisfied with the amount he’d already teased Martin for the day, and wouldn’t feel the need to show up unannounced any time soon.

Pulling a cheap ballpoint pen from his pocket, Martin lifted his head and opened to a blank page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Dianthus”, by Martin Blackwood 
> 
> Sometimes I can't find you   
> As you sit amongst the flowers   
> With your slender stem wrists   
> Gaze sharp as any thorn   
> Your sighs ruffle your unpinned hair   
> Like wind through errant leaves   
> (Will your skin be petal soft?)   
> I so badly want to know   
> If I will be welcome   
> In this garden of your heart.
> 
> (Fun fact: I actually wrote this chapter before I heard the fluff episode, so listening to it made me laugh a lot)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A longer chapter, where things with Jon might actually be going somewhere...

As soon as the clock hit four, Martin was gone—and while Sasha’s warning to not be obvious prevented him from literally running from the Institute, it was a near thing.

Carrying a blank folder that was stuffed with pages of his unusable case notes, he tried to make it look like he was on his way to do some last minute researching before the day’s end. Martin was reasonably sure he couldn’t see Mr. Bouchard’s car in the lot, but just to be safe he went the long way around the Archives so he didn’t pass the stairs that led to the administration offices. The nervous energy he thought he’d gotten out through writing was roiling in his chest, and it was getting worse with every step he took. It built and built until the second he was out of sight of the building, when it _broke_ —and he ran all the way to the Tube.

Gasping for air, he held onto the pole with one hand as he braced his other hand on his knee, ignoring the way people shuffled away from him in the carriage. Usually he’d care more, but all his focus was on what he could say when he got to the flower shop. He never managed to say the things he thought out in advance, but it helped to keep him from panicking. Even if Tim claimed things were okay, Martin had a really, really hard time believing it. Jon wasn’t the kind of person who just let things _go_ , and Martin needed to hear from him that nothing had changed. He needed to know that things between them were fine.

…Whatever those things were.

He almost fell when the train came to a stop, and he straightened up with a grimace as he stuffed the folder into his bag. Even with his knees complaining about all the exertion, Martin jogged up and out of the station. With every step he found himself speeding up until he was going full tilt once again, past the café and down the street, wheezing like a bellows as he dodged shoppers without even apologizing to the people he bumped. There was a stitch in his side, his right shoe was pinching his foot, and sweat was running down his back faster than he was going down the pavement, but Martin didn’t even pause when he hit the door to Jon’s shop.

‘Hit’ being the literal definition of what he did. Martin misjudged how fast he was going, crashed into it, turned the handle, and barely avoided falling flat on his face as he barrelled through in a single motion.

Jon was in the middle or putting together an arrangement, and when Martin burst in Jon swore _violently_. He jumped backwards like he had just been shot at, his arms windmilling for a brief second before he tripped and went straight into the chest of a tall woman who had been standing next to him. She caught him with ease, eyes narrowing, and Martin vaguely noted that she couldn’t just be a customer since she’d been behind the counter.

But that was as far as that thought was able to go. Because in the next instant she’d shoved Jon behind her and grabbed a pair of garden shears from his apron—and levelled them at Martin like a weapon.

“Wait, Daisy, wait!” Jon grabbed her hand that was holding the shears, peering out from under her muscled arm with wide eyes. “That’s—I know him!”

Unfortunately, Martin’s lungs were in absolutely agony; between the longest run he’d made in recent memory and the jolt of fear that he’d almost been stabbed by a gardening implement, he had nothing to say in response. Talking took up valuable air that he really needed to remain conscious. He did manage to croak something that might have sounded like a greeting, or an affirmation, and then doubled over to desperately try not to throw up.

Gesturing with one hand he tried to express to Jon and the woman that things were fine, and he figured he must have gotten the point across when they stopped questioning him. He really had no idea why he’d had such a compulsion to run when he was no bloody good at it. His head was pounding, his throat was raw, and he grimaced at the feel of his sweaty bangs sticking to his face. Swiping his hair off his forehead, Martin glanced up in time to see Jon lunge for the vase of carnations and rip the price tag off. Even though his heart lurched, Martin had to file that information away to address at another time.

Like when he could _breathe_.

It took Martin another minute to stand up without his ribs feeling like they were stabbing into him with intent to kill, and Jon was waiting with a glass of water when he did. It was a good thing Martin was already well and truly flushed from running, or he would have turned a horrifically obvious shade of red at such consideration from the person he, well, felt _fondly_ towards. As it was, he could feel his ears burning. Martin took a few sips from the glass, focusing on the slightly odd taste that tap water always had instead of the man who had handed it to him.

By the time Martin finished drinking, he was able to take a deep breath without it triggering a bout of coughing. He smiled gratefully at Jon, who wordlessly took the glass from him and walked over to the sink to refill it. Martin took a couple more controlled breaths as he watched Jon dry the bottom of the glass with his apron before he handed it back to Martin with a searching look.

The air he had only just managed to gain was almost knocked clean out of Martin’s lungs then, because when Jon let go of the glass he brushed against Martin’s hand—deliberately.

It was a single touch, ghosting over Martin’s knuckles towards his wrist with just enough pressure to be felt. Something about it seemed like a question, a way to ask if everything was okay. But Martin was too distracted by the feeling of Jon’s skin against his own to even begin to think of an answer. The other man’s fingertips were softer than Martin had imagined they would be, free from the calluses that thickened the skin at the joints. He couldn’t quite suppress a shiver as all the nerve endings in his entire arm seemed to come alive, and he was still staring at his hand when Jon looked up.

Their eyes met, and if Jon hadn’t immediately pulled his fingers back like they had been burned, Martin might have thought he’d imagined the brief contact.

Taking a too-big gulp of the water to try and calm his nerves, Martin somehow managed not to choke on it or lose his entire cool. Jon was only being attentive to him, instead of the other way around. No big deal, no big deal _at all_. It was going to have to go in the pile of things to address later though, since Martin still had to explain why he’d shown up doing his best impression of an out-of-shape freight train. He really needed to get that over with already.

Clearing his throat a couple times, Martin took another breath and walked the few steps over to counter as Jon trailed behind him. No customers had come in, so it was just the three of them. No one spoke as they stood there, with varying degrees of awkwardness. Martin put down his glass. Jon picked up a flower to fiddle with the stem. The woman sized Martin up, and Martin tried to ignore that she was doing it as he wracked his mind for what to say.

“Jon, I am so sorry about Tim and Sasha,” he finally blurted out, cutting the woman off when she opened her mouth to no doubt ask who he was and what the hell was going on. “I had no idea they were going to come by, I didn’t ask them to, and I would have stopped them if I knew—”

“Oh, no, it’s…it’s fine, Martin.”

There was a loud snort, and Jon glared at the woman who was standing next to him with her thumbs stuck in her belt loops. She just raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed, shoulders dropping. There was an almost painful familiarity between them. They were obviously friends, and part of Martin started to wonder if they were more than that, his skin going cold under his sweat-soaked shirt.

He hadn’t even had a moment to properly think about the hand touch and he’d already over-thought it; Tim was right about Martin always getting his hopes up over the smallest things. It had just seemed so reasonable to feel special about it, but seeing Jon so accepting of someone else’s presence…Martin’s throat tightened miserably as he listened to Jon talking, and he tried not to let it show.

“Alright, it’s not _fine_.” Jon wrinkled his nose. “But it’s not a, a problem, either. It wasn’t your fault, and I suppose I shouldn’t have assumed their intention wasn’t…friendly.”

“Not everyone is out to get you, Sims.” The woman spoke easily into the space where Martin should have responded, as if she’d known he wouldn’t. “You’re not that special.”

“Says the person who tried to arrest me because they thought I was robbing my own shop.”

“That was different.”

“Oh, was it?”

There was barely an edge to Jon’s words, his indignation clearly the kind that was there for show more than anything. But when the woman shrugged, it seemed less nonchalant than she let on—like it had in fact touched a nerve. Jon took a step closer, nudging her with his elbow, and the tension left the air between them. There was an ease in how they stood together and communicated without words. Martin tried not to let it get to him more than it already had, and failed.

“This is Daisy, by the way.” Jon pointed to the woman, looking somewhat exasperated in the way that Sasha was around Tim. “Daisy, Martin.”

Even though it was just about the last thing he wanted to do in that moment, Martin stuck his hand out for Daisy to shake because he was still polite. He eyed her skeptically though, wondering if he was about to lose any fingers.

“So you’re—?”

“An _ex_ -cop.” Daisy glanced briefly at Jon even as she squeezed Martin’s hand a little too hard. “A friend…got me out.”

Martin cleared his throat, extricating himself from her grip and trying not to make it too obvious how hard it was to do so. He wondered how long it’d been since she switched careers, considering her hold was still like a vice, and he surreptitiously shook out his fingers. She didn’t even react to it, and Martin had to hide how much he wanted to fume over her disregard because Jon _was_ still watching them with vague concern. Forcing a smile instead, Martin gestured to Daisy.

“Did…is she here because of…?”

“Ah.” Jon folded his hands together. “In a way. I was…reasonably certain your coworkers were telling the truth and they were your friends, but, I ah—”

“He’s had some trouble with harassment before, so he called me to be safe.”

“Yes, well.” Jon looked embarrassed by that, and picked up a stack of papers to shuffle them around. “I had considered contacting you to verify their identities, but all I had was your work details and I wasn’t sure how your employers would feel about you using their phone to take a…a personal call.”

“Oh.”

Martin furiously tried to kick his brain into action when his voice refused to cooperate beyond that single word. Previous misgivings about Jon and Daisy’s relationship aside, he could _not_ blow such a perfect chance. Patting his pockets down for a pencil with what was almost desperation, Martin begged himself not to trip over the little he needed to say. It was never going to be easier than right then to give Jon his number.

“I don’t…Do you have a pen? I can just, I can give you my cell now. For the, uh, the future.”

“Oh,” Jon echoed, blinking rapidly as he started searching the countertop with the same fervor that Martin was still searching his own pockets with. “Oh of course. Where are—I always have one somewhere—”

“Seriously?” Daisy rolled her eyes, and reached over to pull Jon’s phone right from his shirt pocket with a familiarity that continued to irk Martin. “What’s your number? I’ll add you as a contact for him.”

He couldn’t be happy about the fact that she apparently knew Jon’s password, swiping a complex pattern over the screen without pause, but it was hard not to be a little appreciative as she typed Martin’s details in with a sort of bored efficiency that neither man could have achieved right then. With an unreadable expression on her face, she made direct eye contact with Martin as she added something next to his name, and then dropped the phone back into Jon’s hands.

“There you go. Now send him a text so he’s got your number, too.”

Blushing deeply, Jon stared at his phone like he’d never held it before in his life. It took him a few seconds before he began to tap at it, pausing and starting again in little bursts as he drafted a message. For Martin, the wait was _agonizing_. He was sure he lost a few months off his life every time Jon paused to bite his lip, or scratch his stubble. He didn’t even breathe until his phone finally lit up with a brief chime and a text from an unknown contact.

_Daisy added the teacup emoji to your name. I hope you don’t mind._

The triumphant delight of having Jon’s number lasted for a whole, blissful second…until the realization that Daisy knew enough about Martin to joke about tea hit him like a punch to the gut. Because even Tim and Sasha didn’t know that he brought tea every visit. He’d never gone into that much detail, worried that his coworkers would tease him more than they already did. Yet Daisy knew.

His mouth flapped soundlessly as he frantically tried to process the unbelievable fact that Jon must have _talked_ about him.

“Sure, I don’t mind,” Martin managed to squeak out, even as he had a field day thinking about how he meant enough to Jon for the man to mention him to his friends. “I can just, uh, I can put the sunflower with your name so we’re even?”

“Yes, yes that’s fair.”

Jon was still blushing as he stared at his phone, holding it tight. He actually jumped when it went off—the dull sound of the vibration strangely audible in the quiet of the shop, even muffled as it was by his hands. It was just a smiley-face text from Martin though, because he’d desperately wanted to send something back and had no idea what else to write. But it seemed to be the right choice, and the simple emote made Jon look up just long enough to flash Martin the smallest smile in return

“Speaking of sunflowers.” Daisy’s voice made _both_ men jump, and Martin couldn’t prevent himself from scowling in her direction when she openly and wolfishly grinned at their reaction. “Thanks for checking in on Jon. I’m glad he has someone else looking out for him.”

“What? I mean I’m just…You’re welcome?”

“I mean it. You know how he got those scars? Accident with a chemical cleaner, he was lucky he was wearing his glasses.”

“Oh my god, Jon, are you okay?” Martin was so startled he almost reached out to touch Jon’s face before he remembered himself, and blushed deeply. “I-I mean I know you’re okay _now_ but—”

“Yes, Martin, I’m fine. Daisy, I really don’t see—”

“That’s how I met him, actually.” Daisy reached over to thump the back of her loosely closed fist against Jon’s chest. “Heard him crashing around in here, broke down the door and told him to put his hands up. Saw the burns all over his face and took him to the closest hospital.”

“You forgot the part where you still thought I was an unlucky burglar,” Jon interjected drily when Daisy paused, seemingly resigned to her telling the story, “and had me in handcuffs until we showed the nurse my ID and the name matched the shop.”

“I took them off right after.”

“Reluctantly.”

“Yeah, yeah. At least it meant I felt like I should stick around and give you a ride home.”

“Which I didn’t need.”

“You looked like a bloody patchwork quilt by the time they finished with the plasters and gauze. You needed it.”

“Hm.” Jon crossed his arms and gave Daisy a look that spoke volumes. “You know, not to interrupt your _insistence_ on bringing up my failure at GHS safety and how bad I looked afterward, but I happen to need to close down for the evening. I’m not about to lose all my dahlias because you want to embarrass me.”

Grumbling the whole way, Jon didn’t even wait for a reply as he stalked outside to start gathering the flowers that were still out on display. Daisy snorted softly, and stepped out from behind the counter just in time to take the bucket out of his hands when he came back in. Her first comment was lost in the jingle of the bell on the door, but Jon’s blunt rejoinder—and her subsequent laugh—was not. Their back-and-forth banter was comfortable though. Even if he was envious of it, Martin couldn’t help smiling at the chance to see Jon interacting with someone who knew he was more bark than bite.

Without thinking, Martin followed after them to help too, barely holding back a comment about the way Jon casually started to direct both Daisy and Martin as if he had never once complained about being able to handle everything himself.

The three of them made quick work of the minimalistic display, and as soon as Martin brought in the last plant, Jon locked the door. He sighed as he flipped the sign around in the window to confirm that the shop was very much closed, and Martin made a questioning noise in return. Jon just gave a slight shake of his head though, before he took the petunia from him and set it onto a shelf. The rest of the flowers were already tucked into the back cooler when Martin looked around, and Daisy was scrubbing her hands on her pants to get rid of the bits of greenery stuck to her.

“Anyway—”

Daisy spoke as soon as they were all back at the counter and Jon groaned quietly, putting his head in his hands as if there was nothing else to be done about her. Martin winced sympathetically; Jon had clearly tried to distract her with closing the shop and it hadn’t worked. In contrast, Daisy had her thumbs hooked into her belt loops and was leaning back as casually as if she was telling a far more normal story. Like she wasn’t in the middle of explaining how the whole start to her and Jon’s friendship was based on her nearly arresting him.

“Like I was saying. After the bit with the hospital I started checking in on him. He’s not the usual type around here, had some problems, and it made me feel better to help him out. Started as guilt, not that way anymore.”

“No, not anymore.”

When Jon lifted his head, the look he gave her then was actually fond, if a bit begrudgingly so. The lines around his eyes deepened with his smile, and Martin felt jealousy burn again in his chest.

Until Daisy turned her attention to him instead.

“So, now we’re even, since I know how _you_ met Jon. You’re the Martin that he’s been going on about, right? Can’t say I expected to meet you today.”

“I-I’m _what_?”

While the entire comment caught Martin off-guard, it was the bit in the middle that broke the pitch of his voice and left him sounding—and floundering—like a toy duck in a tub. But hard on the heels of his embarrassment was relief that he wasn’t the only one responding incoherently: Jon was making equally little sense. Although not as squeakily, he was still spluttering as raked his hair back and kept looking around the shop like one of the displays was about to tell him what was happening and how to make it stop.

“D-Daisy! I do not _go on_ about him I-I just, I’ve spoken to you about things—”

“Wait, wait I was just, I came by to say sorry! I wasn’t expecting to meet y-you either—”

Both men were blushing and stammering, Daisy calmly watching the disaster she’d caused, when Martin caught Jon’s panicked gaze with his own. Something about whatever emotion they saw in each other caused them both to go abruptly silent, and they looked away from each other just as quickly. It was like they’d said more than they’d meant to, even though they weren’t even addressing each other.

There was a certain giddiness tucked away in Martin’s chest that wasn’t just from the surprise of it, though. Daisy’s remark and Jon’s denial both sounded like something anyone would be allowed to be hopeful over, even if just a tiny bit. Martin was sure that Tim would agree about that. People didn’t ‘go on’ about other people unless they liked them at least a _little._ Nor did they touch their hands or trade phone numbers. A smile started to spread over his face, and Martin had to duck his head so it didn’t show.

“L-like I said, there was no need for you to apologize.” Jon found his voice first, and he would have sounded almost normal if he wasn’t speaking too fast. “Though I appreciate that you came by.”

“Yeah—yeah, me too.” Martin glanced at the time, and gestured vaguely at the door. It wasn’t that late, but the shop technically _was_ closed. The last thing he wanted was to overstay his welcome. “Although, I should, uh, probably go?”

“Probably for the um, for the best.” Jon pointedly didn’t acknowledge Daisy, who looked far too pleased with herself. “But I…I will see you next week?”

“Yeah.” Martin nodded, still trying to hide the happiness that was infusing his entire body. “Yeah, of course.”

It was a lot easier to shake Daisy’s hand at that point, when she stuck it out towards him, opposed to how he’d felt earlier in the evening. For her part, she didn’t try to crush his fingers either. She just gave them a firm squeeze. Martin did his best to face her with composure, but it was harder than expected when she raised one eyebrow at him just enough for it be meaningful. His ears started to burn again, and he quickly turned away to where Jon was standing by the door.

The evening light softened the grey in his hair and glinted off the scars that Martin knew the origins of, now. One of his arms was bent awkwardly out of sight, like he was trying to scratch between his shoulder blades or untie his apron one handed. When Martin approached, he unlocked the door before he paused. There was a moment where Jon fiddled with the deadbolt, and then he brought his arm out from behind his back. He was holding a red, unwrapped carnation in his hand.

“Just, ah, on the house today.”

Martin took it automatically, and for once neither of them avoided the contact of their fingers as the stem passed between them. For a brief moment they were both holding the flower, and it almost took Martin’s breath away. The little thrill that shot up his arm and burst in his chest from it gave him a bit of courage, and he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Um, about that…did you overcharge Tim and Sasha today? Because they mentioned the price and, um...”

“Oh.” Jon stared at his shoes like they were suddenly and intensely interesting. “N-no I…They paid the usual amount.”

“Then…?”

“Y-you bring me tea every week, Martin. Of course I don’t charge you full price.”

He was still visibly flushed and his hair was mussed from him running his hands though it earlier, but when Jon looked up his gaze was steady. The butterflies surged in Martin’s stomach as he met Jon’s eyes, bright and clear and unhidden by the glasses that had slipped down his nose. Martin wondered if it had gotten so late there were stars to be reflected in those eyes, and subconsciously filed that thought away to add to his notebook. They were so close he could have counted the flecks of colour in Jon’s irises.

And if Daisy hadn’t coughed just then, Martin might have asked Jon if he could kiss him.

Instead he straightened up, letting the moment pass. He didn’t even regret it—or rather, he didn’t regret it a _lot_. Because he didn’t think that the moment was lost. It just felt like it had been paused, like it would be there later if and when he wanted to find it. After so much dancing around and pulling away, they’d stopped. There was just the two of them, sharing the same spot because they wanted to.

Standing in each other’s space like that was…well, it was _comfortable_. Martin still felt a bit like he was standing on a live wire just because it was _Jon_ , but he didn’t feel unwelcome or that he shouldn’t be there. His shoulder was half an arm’s length away from Jon’s and it just seemed natural. Like they were supposed to be that close. And when he headed out of the shop, Jon didn’t immediately shut the door, either. He just stood there, lifting his hand in a small wave as Martin walked away.

The jingle of the door only sounded when Martin finally turned his back. The smile he’d been holding onto broke free at last; and even the pain in his legs as he made his way to the Tube couldn’t diminish it. It was nothing some rest and a bit of liniment couldn’t fix, after all. Martin had much better things to think about than aching knees or tired lungs. Things like how he had a carnation, and Jon’s phone number, and—more than anything else—a _chance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to wait to post this until I finished writing the finale, but after the most recent episode I decided to post it now ;w; for some Daisy love.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoys it <3 I'm on tumblr as thecrowmaiden if you ever want to talk!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an accidental call goes well.

Less than 24 hours later, Martin’s thumb hovered over the send button—and he wondered what it was about that word that stripped him of every ounce of courage he’d ever had.

It was just a text to Jon. He wasn’t even trying to ask him on a date, regardless of how much Tim had tried to convince Martin to do so while they were at work that morning; his shoulders were still smarting from the amount of delighted back-slapping he’d gotten when he’d told his coworkers a heavily-abridged version of how he’d gotten Jon’s number. And while Martin didn’t begrudge them their enthusiasm, he didn’t want to do something like that over the _phone._ Things like that needed to be done in person.

So there was no reason for him to be so wound up over a message that didn’t mention feelings of any kind. Martin was just trying to text Jon a picture of the carnation from the day before, in the new vase he’d just picked up from the nearby charity shop on his way home. Jon wouldn’t be able to see that Martin hadn’t even changed from his work clothes in his hurry to show the other man his purchase. Nor would he be able to see that the front of Martin’s jumper was soaked from washing the little cat-shaped piece of chinaware free of grime, or the tacky bit still behind the cat’s ears from where the glue from the sticker wouldn’t quite come off.

None of that was visible in the snapshot he’d taken. Martin took a deep breath. It was just the carnation and the vase that he was so pleased with finding. The vase that had been in the window of first place he’d gone after work, the tiny chip of glaze missing from its right haunch enough to get him a discount. It was the right size, it was adorable, and it was the perfect excuse to make use of the fact that he had Jon as a contact.

It was even a bit like a dry run. As much as Martin felt newly confident that a request for a date had a solid chance of being well-received, he still had to be able to actually _ask._

Fidgeting with his cup of tea he took another steadying breath, closing his eyes tight as he replayed the previous night in his head and every glance Jon had given him. His resolve fortified with the hope that gave him, he counted to ten…and quickly tapped send. It took more than a little effort to not immediately throw his phone across the room like it was a grenade he’d just pulled the pin from, and he actually felt the muscles in his arm flex like he might do it involuntarily. So he slapped his cell down on the coffee table instead…with a lot more force than necessary.

Martin winced at the sharp sound of the plastic case hitting the wood, flipping it over to check if there were any new cracks in the screen. But it was in no worse shape than before, and the dark surface reflected his own worried face.

Or rather, it reflected him briefly.

Because less than a couple seconds after he turned it to check for damage, the screen lit up with an incoming call—from Jon.

For the second time in as many minutes, Martin almost pitched his phone across his flat. His temperature spiked and he tasted blood from where he’d caught his lip between his teeth; he tried not to imagine every worse case scenario for why Jon was responding to the picture with an actual _call_ , hands shaking as he stared at the man’s name in horror. But the muffled sound of Martin’s generic ringtone didn’t stop after a few seconds of fervently wishing it would, so he shoved away the fear and lifted the phone to his ear.

“H-h-hello?”

“Martin!” Somehow, Jon managed to sound the more panicked out of the two of them. “I’m sorry—I, I apologize. It was just, it was the Admiral, and I shouldn’t have left my phone unlocked—”

“The _Admiral_?” Martin’s imagination immediately supplied him with the visual of an elderly, scowling man. He felt a smile bubble up at both the image and the relief that the call was in fact innocuous. “You know an actual Admiral?”

“What? No, no, it’s Georgie’s cat; he gets into everything. He sat on the screen when I put my phone down. I think one of his, um, one of his paws must have dialed you.”

_Georgie’s cat._

Jealousy and a touch of despair immediately surged into Martin’s throat in a messy tangle, and he fought hard not to give into either. He’d already decided to trust himself in thinking that he had a chance with Jon. Regardless of if it sounded like he was at a girlfriend’s place. It was like trying to swallow steel wool, but he did manage to gulp the lump of emotion down so he could fill the silence with a scratchy laugh before it turned awkward.

He had no idea what to say though, and he was almost grateful when his panic was interrupted by a voice coming through from Jon’s end of the line. It unfortunately wasn’t Daisy’s low tone, distinct even after having only heard it the once; it was a brighter voice, full and attractive.

“I’m going to go pick up dinner—oh!” The voice grew apologetically hushed. “You didn't mention you were making a call.”

“I didn’t plan to, it was the Admiral.”

Jon sounded fondly aggrieved, and there was a laugh from the other person. They were obviously closer to Jon now, if the volume and clarity was any indication. Martin tried not to imagine the two of them sitting cozily together, gripping his phone tightly as he listened to the conversation that was continuing without him.

“So who did he call this time?”

“I-it was Martin. M-Martin Blackwood?”

“You only know the _one_ Martin, Jon.” The voice was gentle and amused. “Why don’t you put him on a video call so he can see the Admiral, while I get our Indian food?”

“I don’t, ah, know how…”

There was a brief rustle of static as Jon’s sentence faded out, like the crackle of an old radio or cassette tape. Martin was checking to make sure that the call hadn’t ended when the unknown person suddenly spoke, and he actually flinched.

“Hi, Martin, it’s Georgie here.” Her tone was friendly, and Martin cautiously brought the phone back to his ear. “Would you like to go on video with Jon? I can set you up before I go.”

“Uh.”

Martin shot to his feet, spun around, and bolted to the loo to check himself over in the mirror. His hair was a bit rumpled, but the jumper he’d gone to the shops in was clean and mostly unwrinkled. It wasn’t the most flattering thing he owned, but then again nothing he had really was. His work clothing just looked good on principal more than it looked good on him. But he wasn’t going to say no to seeing Jon, so he pushed his bangs away from his face and ran back to his living room.

“S-sure!” Martin managed to reply, frantically rearranging his couch to look like less of a mess. He threw a cushion to the side, and made sure the kitchen wasn’t in view when he sat down. “Sure, if Jon wants to.”

“Okay, just let me hang up and call you back.”

Tapping his fingers against his leg, Martin hummed his agreement and waited for the beep that signalled Georgie had ended the call. As soon as she did, he took a gulp of his lukewarm tea to try and do something about the lump in his throat—and promptly choked. Wiping his mouth on the hem of his jumper as he coughed, Martin hauled himself to his feet to check himself in the mirror again. It was almost guaranteed that he was going to be an awful blotchy mess from choking, but some cold water would help.

He’d just gotten to the sink and turned on the taps when he heard an unfamiliar sound chiming. It took a solid five seconds, during which he ran a cloth under the faucet, before he realized it was his ringtone.

In his haste to get back he almost tripped; but Martin caught himself on his coffee table with a squeak, swore, and quickly hit the green icon on his phone to accept. When it lit up, Georgie was just in the middle of helping Jon to figure out the right angle to hold his screen at. She was laughing, teasing Jon for the vague confusion on his face as he held his phone at arm’s length and attempted to smile. They were so preoccupied that Martin could only hope that the state he was in would be overlooked.

There was honestly so much for him to take in that within a minute Martin himself forgot he probably looked a mess. Georgie was clearly the woman who had been in the photo from the pride parade, and was still painfully beautiful even in the dull-coloured puffer jacket she had on. What he could see of the flat had the look of a place where people didn’t decorate straight out of the charity shops. There was even a fluffy tail at the edge of his view that hinted at a truly amazing cat. But there was one thing more important than any of that.

Jon’s hair.

_It was down_.

Falling over his shoulders in rumpled waves, there wasn’t a clip or barrette in sight. Most of it was pushed back behind his ears, but a couple sections were free to curl against his cheekbones. Even his glasses were a different pair than the ones he usually wore to work: more oval, and less polished. The battered frames actually softened the angles of his face. In fact, it was the most comfortable, casual, and painfully handsome that Martin had ever seen Jon look.

And that made it all the more surprising when the first thing Martin said addressed none of it.

“Is that a shirt from the Met?” He blurted out, staring at Jon’s chest and not feeling the least awkward about it as he tried to read the writing across it. “Like, the actual Met?”

Georgie snorted, and Jon looked down at himself as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. The dark coloured shirt swamped him, the overlarge collar baring the hollow at the base of his throat and a bit more besides. The bottom hem pooled in his pyjama-clad lap. It was definitely decorated with the branding from the local police force.

“…Yes?” He ventured after a moment, pulling at the material and squinting at the writing. Doing so revealed a great deal more of his shoulders and collarbones, but he was seemingly oblivious to the effect that was having on a deeply flustered Martin. “I got it from Daisy.”

“You got all your t-shirts from Daisy.” Georgie paused for a moment, looking as if she was doing a bit of maths in her head. “Actually, you got ninety percent from her and the rest you stole from me.”

“I did not!”

“You did.” Winking at Martin while Jon rolled his eyes behind her, Georgie leaned conspiratorially closer to the phone. “He’s never voluntarily purchased a t-shirt in his life.”

“I believe that.” Martin couldn’t help but smile as he agreed, hiding it behind his hand as if he were about to cough. Jon looked mock-offended by it, but he quickly slipped into an expression that was so close to fond that it set Martin to blushing.

He had no idea what to do with that kind of _look_ , the soft glance of familiar eyes over unfamiliar glasses. When had Jon taken to looking at him like that, anyway? The night before came to mind, all the memories of the twilight reflecting off the grey in Jon’s hair, and when Martin swallowed it was as if his mouth was full of sawdust. He could only hope that the relief on his face wasn’t too obvious when Georgie stepped back and briskly clapped her hands together.

“Well, I really need to go pick up dinner, so I’m going to leave you boys to it. Be back in a bit!”

“Yes, see you when you get back—”

“—Oh right, be safe!”

Jon and Martin’s goodbyes overlapped in their hurry to make themselves heard before Georgie left, their voices mingling as she pulled her shoes on and slipped out the door in what seemed like seconds. They both blushed as the door closed, but their subsequent attempts to apologize overlapped as well and they ended up in a tongue-tied silence instead.

Glancing away from the phone, Jon fussed with his collar. His glasses slid down when he did, and he sighed as he pushed them firmly back on the bridge of his nose. He still looked apologetic when he finally met Martin’s eyes again, shrugging awkwardly as he opened his mouth to speak. The motion caused his shirt to slip farther down though, and he hastily yanked it back into place.

“I-I do apologize for my appearance. I wasn’t expecting…”

“No, no, it’s fine! I’m not exactly dressed up myself.” Martin rubbed the back of his neck. “But I mean, if you don’t, I can hang up—”

“Absolutely not.” Jon’s answer was immediate, and so resolute Martin actually felt a pang in his chest. “I would have declined when Georgie offered if it was, ah, an issue for me.”

A wry little smile tugged at one corner of Jon’s mouth then, and he rubbed at the stubble on his chin.

“You seem to have the worst luck for meeting my friends without warning.”

Relief flooded Martin’s system, and he successfully resisted the urge to pump his fist in the air over that delightful word. Telling himself he had a chance with Jon was a lot different than telling himself he had a chance with Jon where there were other options. Georgie had been infinitely more threatening—in a romantic sense—than Daisy, and Martin didn’t have the confidence to ever put himself in competition with _anyone_. Knowing he didn’t have to was almost as good of an unintentional gift as seeing Jon with his hair down.

“Well, at least your friends didn’t show up at my work.” Martin said, with a grin that far outstripped Jon’s little smirk. “That I know of, anyway.”

“Point taken.” There was an insistent-sounding meow from somewhere out of sight, and Jon glanced down with a sigh. “We are ignoring the Admiral though, as you may have just heard. Did you want to see him?”

Martin nodded, and Jon turned the phone to show off a regal, fluffy cat that fit their name perfectly. They were also pointedly ignoring Jon, but upon seeing the phone the Admiral nosed up against it—and provided a very blurry close up of its eyes and whiskers as it snuffled curiously at the screen.

The phone started to shake as Jon chuckled, and he lifted it away from the cat. His smile was so soft that Martin’s heart very nearly melted, and he actually had to bite his lip a second later to prevent the _aww_ that almost slipped out when the Admiral chose to address the lack of attention by jumping straight into Jon’s lap. Watching Jon fuss over the cat was officially more than he could handle, and Martin had to take off his glasses and clean them one-handed as he waited for them to get settled.

“You know,” Martin said, once Jon was comfortably petting the Admiral and the staticky purrs were filling the room, “when you mentioned that you liked cats I didn’t realize you had one.”

“I don’t. The Admiral is Georgie’s; I only see him when I visit.”

“Does your flat not allow them?”

“It does, actually.” Jon paused. “But I spend most of my time at the shop. It wouldn’t be kind, or responsible, to leave a cat alone like that.”

“Yeah, that’s fair. My flat doesn’t even allow pets, so I’ve never had to think about it.”

“You’ll have to come and visit the Admiral at some point.” There was an extra loud purr from the cat in question, and Jon nodded as if agreeing. “Georgie already mentioned it.”

Once again, Martin was saved from revealing that he lacked an appropriate response by the woman in question; falling off his couch with a wordless noise of shock was the only thing he would have come up with otherwise. But he heard the sound of the door opening right as Jon said her name, and the Admiral provided an ample distraction by leaping off Jon’s lap to run to her.

Martin really didn’t know whether to be elated or terrified that Jon apparently talked about him to his friends, enough where they wanted to know who Martin was. He had to be saying good things, or they wouldn’t care, right? It was too similar to how he spoke to Tim and Sasha about Jon, and he almost felt queasy thinking about how his affection might actually be reciprocated. Believing Jon liked him he could manage. Believing Jon liked Martin as much as Martin liked him was a lot harder.

Torn between wanting to save his nerves and talking a bit longer, Martin cleared his throat to get it properly unstuck and to give himself a moment to decide. As much as he really didn’t want to give up their impromptu conversation and the implied intimacy of it, Jon did have a meal waiting for him…and Martin ought to get around to microwaving something for himself.

“I-I should probably let you get going.” He ventured, forcing himself to speak loud enough where Jon could hear him over Georgie in the background and wondering if he sounded as reluctant to Jon as he did to his own ears. “Right?”

“Hm? Oh, oh yes.” Jon’s attention returned to Martin, albeit still partially distracted, and he pushed back his hair. “Yes, I’ve kept you long enough as it is. My apologies again for the sudden call—”

“Wait, that’s not what I meant—”

“—I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Uh.” Martin decided not to mention that he usually wouldn’t see Jon again until the next week, or that Jon himself had confirmed that only yesterday. He felt his chest warm, and he nodded. “Sure. Yes. Tomorrow.”

They waved goodbye, hanging up at almost the same point as Georgie waved from behind Jon’s head. In the abrupt silence of his flat, Martin couldn’t help but laugh quietly. There was an edge of almost hysteria to it, and he had to wipe his eyes after a moment; it was all a bit much to take in.

Outside his open drapes he could see the streetlights, the evening having crept up on him while he chatted with Jon. He went to the window, his breath misting against the glass. Usually the little pools of yellow light made him feel a little disconnected from the world, stuck there alone in a cold room as the shadows of people arm-in-arm went past. Too many reminders of the things in life he wanted and didn’t have.

But they didn’t make him feel that way tonight. They looked…warm. Soft. And they made him feel the same way.

Martin smiled, and closed the drapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry for the wait, life...hasn't liked me too much lately. But I buckled down to get you another chapter, and accidentally wrote a whole extra one? The finale is still to come, oops. I'll try not to make the wait for it as long as it was for this one.
> 
> Also, if everyone could avoid spoilers about the recent episodes of TMA I'd appreciate it. I'm several weeks behind at this point. But I hope you all like this update! Thank you for sticking with me on this.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to self-indulgent fluff! Fluff that got...very long. I had originally planned to wait until I was done writing the entire thing before posting, but I really wanted to get Chapter 1 up before the hiatus ended, so here we are. I'm looking at it being 7 chapters in total. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Just a few notes: I worked as a florist for several years, but I am Canadian so don't hold me to accuracy regarding London floristry haha (or accuracy regarding London and/or its geography in general...) In this AU, the Magnus Archives is a non-spooky place and Sasha is the head archivist. Tim and Martin are the research assistants and Elias is a typical upstairs Manager(tm).
> 
> (Also Jon and Daisy are friends because it's my AU and I said so.)


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